Epilogophilia: Games People Play
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: If it weren't for bad luck, he'd have no luck at all.


Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them

**Author's Note**: Another Epilogophilia entry from Star for BK 'zine number three. It always about knowing what the important stuff in life is, and valuing what you have while you have it.

**Games People Play**

_On a bet with Hardcastle, Mark decides to audition for a game show called 'Trivia Master'. The show's desperate producers are looking for a likeable loser to be the patsy for their newest project: the one million dollar prize version of their sinking show. _

_McCormick becomes 'The San Quentin Kid' and wins his first 100,000 handily by answering obscure questions about auto racing. Hardcastle, as usual, smells a rat. Mark is aggravated by the judge's suspicions. _

_Another of the station's employees, Diane Templeton, overhears the producers plotting to rig the game. She confides in the show's charming but deranged host and is killed by him. _

_Hardcastle discovers the estate has been bugged by the show's producers. Mark finally realizes he's being used. The scam unravels in front of the camera at what was to be the final round, and Mark's chance to go for the million. _

_The final question, which the producers hoped would stump McCormick and save them from being uncovered as frauds, was confiscated, unopened, as evidence. Mark, of course, can't stand the suspense, and manages to get his hands on it._

**Epilogue**—by L. M. Lewis

"It's missing." Hardcastle had just said good-bye and put the receiver down. He looked over his shoulder at the man sitting perfectly relaxed in the chair. "I don't suppose you'd know anything about that?"

"Anything about what?" Mark had his head back, his tie loosened, and his façade of innocence perfectly arranged.

"That last question, the one they were gonna throw at you today."

"_That's_ what's missing?" Mark said, raising his voice into the incredulity register with the effortlessness of frequent practice. He shook his head. "Don't worry, it'll probably turn up."

"There's something called the chain of evidence, McCormick, you know? The police are supposed to keep track of everything, secure it, make sure it doesn't get tampered with."

"I think it's a little late to worry about the tampering bit," McCormick said with a slight tinge of bitterness. "Anyway, I dunno what all the fuss is about. You've got the tape, and the guy flaking out in front of the camera, and the other two guys pretty much pointing their fingers at him and falling all over themselves to explain exactly how they played me for a patsy."

Mark's frown deepened. "The D.A. office will have a field day with this. They're probably hoping it goes all the way to trial. It'll be a slam dunk. All that publicity to be had. Just think . . ." He apparently was, and they didn't seem to be good thoughts. The frown had settled into a look of muted horror.

"And they've got me. Star witness: 'The San Quentin Kid'." More head-shaking, and then a muttered, "You know I really didn't like that part."

"You were just an innocent bystander on this one, kiddo."

"Hah. You know what most people will think? Either I was in on it, or I was an idiot not to have figured it out."

"But you _did_ figure it out."

"No, _you_ did. I just kept my eyes closed and my fingers crossed as long as I could." He put his head further back and let out a long sigh. There was a moment of silence and then, "I think there's a pattern to this."

"Whaddaya mean? Which part? You're not gonna go all paranoid on me here, are ya?"

"No, listen." Mark brought his head back up. He leaned forward, his face intent. "Think about it. Two years ago, driving for Denny Collins, that was a scam. You told me it was and I didn't want to believe you. Then last year, David Waverly and those stupid water filters, now this."

"Just a coincidence."

"Three times in three years? Come on, Judge. It's like I'm a dowsing rod for scams."

"_You_ weren't scamming when you drove for Collins. You were doing pretty good on that track." The judge sat on the edge of his desk. The silence spun out for a bit before he finally muttered, "I'm gonna have a little trouble saying anything positive about the Waverly thing."

McCormick nodded glumly.

"But that's just because you're not a natural-born shill," Hardcastle added hastily. "I mean, you do a pretty good con when you've got the right motivation, but just to turn a profit . . . nah. Not your style."

Mark smiled wanly, and still looked unconvinced.

"Anyway," Hardcastle took a breath and let it out, "this thing with the TV guys, we know that they had to come up with that 100,000 question without any help from the bugs, and you got that one right."

"Yeah," Mark said with a half-shrug. "Even idiots get lucky once in a while."

"And who knows, you mighta known the answer to the final one, too." Hardcastle's eyes narrowed a bit and then he said, "Right?"

Mark didn't reply. He just slumped back down in the seat again. "You know, really, the whole thing isn't very important. The played me for an idiot, but they _killed_ her."

Hardcastle nodded soberly.

"Kinda makes the rest of this look pretty, um . . . _trivial_." He winced briefly at his choice of words.

"Well, that's what it was all along."

"Even when there was all that money at stake . . . or at least I thought there was?"

The judge shrugged.

"Yeah, just money," McCormick smiled. "Which is not all it's cracked up to be," he said. "On the other hand," he added wistfully, "it comes in handy for insurance payments and car repairs."

"Yeah, but there's a whole lotta things you can't get with it."

"So I've been told." Mark sounded unconvinced.

"Well," Hardcastle said, almost matter-of-factly, "you heard right. And, anyway, when I offered you a pile of it a couple of weeks ago, I sorta remember you throwing it right back in my face."

Mark blanched slightly. He thought they'd put the whole incident of Hardcastle's mistaken terminal diagnosis—and all the emotions it had uncovered—behind them, and the judge seemed the last guy to bring that kind of stuff up again.

"You're right," he said flatly, "there's a lot of stuff more important than money." He sat there, feeling confused, staring at a spot a little to the right of where the judge sat. He wasn't sure where the conversation was going. He finally added, "I'll testify at Diane Templeton's murder trial, if that's what you're getting at."

He shot a quick glance at the judge. If anything, the man looked a little surprised. That was quickly clarified.

"Nah, wasn't worried about that," the judge blustered. "Besides, like you said, they've got what you'd call 'a preponderance of evidence'. Not even sure the defense attorneys will want to see it go to trial."

He stopped there, adding nothing more for a moment, until the silence had gotten a little taut. Mark still sat quietly, with a puzzled look on his face.

Hardcastle finally spoke, almost gruffly, "Frank said maybe I went sniffin' around this thing on account of you getting a pile of dough would give you a lot more options."

Mark stared at him for a moment. "But you didn't, did you?" He shook his head. "Uh-uh, you went sniffing around because it smelled funny, same as Waverly's shtick, and Denny Collins' operation."

The younger man seemed to be giving it some thought. "And, hell, what about the Arizona Modifieds? You were at the finish line for me _there_." A heavy sigh followed, most likely the recollection of how that misadventure had turned out. He finally added, "I suppose if I ever _do_ finally stumble into something good, that's actually legit, you'll be the one screaming 'go for it' in my ear."

"Well, yeah," Hardcastle nodded once sharply. "Of course."

Mark looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, "'Course I might not tell you right away, you know? Just to be on the safe side."

"You think I'm a jinx, huh?"

"Might be." Mark looked utterly sober. "One of us sure is."

"And you'd kinda prefer it be me?" the judge said with one small sigh of resignation.

The sober look finally gave way to a grin. "Absolutely."


End file.
